A Different Kind of Fine
by lizook
Summary: "Don't think I won't hit you with my crutches."     "Now, now, there's no need for violence, my dear."


**Spoilers/Timeline**: None/Set in the future

**A/N**:So I really had no intention of writing again so soon, but as we all know, there's no denying the Muse. Thanks to **Alanna1231** for the tiny spot check and **K. Elisabeth** for the emergency grammar save.

**Disclaimer**: The Mentalist doesn't belong to me; Title taken from the Zac Brown Band song of the same name.

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><p>Sighing, she leans forward, attempting to itch under the brace on her ankle without hitting her forehead off the edge of the table.<p>

It's more challenging than it sounds.

For one, her arms and back are sore from the fall and the subsequent use of crutches. That there's not even enough space for a sheet of paper to slide between the rough material and her skin also poses a problem.

Pushing her chair back, she reaches blindly for several minutes, twisting and turning, sucking in a harsh breath as pain shoots up her leg when she moves the wrong way.

She's just about to give up when she notices the serving spoon now perched on top of the files she'd been working on while he moved about the kitchen; maybe the handle would press against her leg enough to ease—

"Don't even think about it."

He doesn't even turn around, just waves his hand in her direction and continues working. To anyone else it would sound like a reprimand, but she hears the playfulness—the smile—in his voice.

Shaking her head, she relaxes back in the chair, tucking her hands under her arms.

She'd never considered that Jane could cook. That he enjoyed it.

It was just that he so often could be found with his cup of tea and a hastily made sandwich, or joining in on whatever takeout the team was ordering, that she hadn't considered it. Had assumed that it was just one of the many things that had died before she met him.

But he'd been insistent ever since she'd sprained her ankle three days ago and watching him now she can see why: he liked being able to take care of people like this.

It was a way for him to finally let his guard down.

(These moments had been happening more and more often since the Red John case was officially labeled closed, but she still wasn't used to it.

Wasn't sure she'd ever be.)

"Almost there. Prepare to have your mind blown, your senses dazzled." He glances over his shoulder, lifting an eyebrow at her before turning back to the task at hand, humming softly as he continues working.

He's rifling through the drawer near the refrigerator when it dawns on her just how comfortable he is here. That he's digging utensil after utensil out, knowing exactly where they are without question even though they've rarely spent any time here.

It's just been the occasional late night of paper work (who knew it was one of the few things she _could _guilt him into) or spirited discussion over what angle is most useful in a current case, but...

She bites down on her lip, teeth pulling at the tender flesh. Nights like that have been happening more frequently lately, but still...

_She _rarely spends time at her apartment, forget the kitchen.

"Lisbon, where'd you move the pepper— Oh, found it." He grins triumphantly, crushing the seasoning over the plates in front of him before picking them up and crossing the room. "Dinner is served."

She starts to say how good it looks but is suddenly overwhelmed as she realizes what he's made. She shouldn't be surprised really, the man reads people for a living, but how he knows pasta primavera is her favorite comfort meal she can't even begin to guess. It fills her with a warmth she hasn't felt in a long, _long _time.

"... dolphin dishtowels and salt shakers? Do you have some marine obsession you've been hiding from us?" He settles in the chair next to her, his brow furrowing slightly as he tries to figure it out. "Or are you just channeling that inner little girl that still wants to be a marine bio—"

"Don't think I won't hit you with my crutches."

"Now, now, there's no need for violence, my dear." He pats her hand, grinning enigmatically. "Especially since you'll want to eat that before it gets cold."

She considers a retort for a half a minute before giving in; it does smell delicious and she's really hungry and there's plenty of time to spar with him later. Taking a bite, she closes her eyes, letting the brightness of the vegetables mix with the creaminess of the sauce.

He's still beside her. Uncharacteristically so and when she looks at him, her fork halfway back to her mouth, she's shocked to find worry and expectation warring on his face. His fingers grip the edge of his plate tightly, his chair pulled close to hers, and their knees brush as she turns to face him fully.

"Beyond the obvious that this is one of your favorite meals, the vitamins will help you on the road to recovery." He smirks, knuckles turning white against the sage dish, belying the calmness sparking in his eyes. "The carrots are a good source of vitamin A, broccoli has sulforaphane, and the onions—"

Whatever the onion has she doesn't want to find out. It's not important.

_He _is.

Closing what little space is between them, she covers his mouth with hers, her hands fisting in the soft material of his vest. He groans beneath her, instinctively pulling her closer as her teeth tug at his bottom lip.

It's hard and hot and demanding.

It makes his pulse race, his breath unsteady as her hand moves up his chest and cups the back of his neck and he knows. Knows she sees him.

Understands.

Gasping, she pulls away for a moment, brushing her lips across his jaw before their mouths meet once more. His thumb caresses her cheek, knee nudges between hers, as her tongue strokes over his slowly. It's still an unbelievably potent feeling but there's something more now. A warmth and comfort.

A promise.

Smiling, she breaks the moment again and turns back to her plate, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she picks up her fork. "Don't want this to get cold, after all."

He gulps, the slight flush of her cheeks, the way her mouth closes around the pasta, derailing any train of thought. "I... that was... how strong are those pain killers..."

Her only reply is a small shrug, the corner of her mouth turning up as she scoots her chair closer to his, her crutches clattering to the floor when she leans against him. Head resting on his shoulder for a moment, she laughs softly and sits up once more, intent to finish the rare homemade meal.

His hand cups her elbow briefly and then he's digging in, too, his shoulders relaxing after the first bite. She risks a glance over at him and finds him smirking at her, his eyes crinkling with affection.

"I think, if you finish all that..." She gestures to the plate, her dimple appearing as their gazes meet. "I can come up with something even better for dessert..."


End file.
